


It Is Always Darkest before the Dawn

by PurpleKitty



Category: Poirot - Agatha Christie, Poirot - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Character Death, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Men Crying, Platonic Cuddling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26482609
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleKitty/pseuds/PurpleKitty
Summary: Hastings is devastated because of his wife's death and comes to Poirot looking for comfort.
Relationships: Arthur Hastings & Hercule Poirot
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	It Is Always Darkest before the Dawn

It was a calm October evening. Poirot was looking through some of the old letters from Hastings. He hadn't heard from his dear friend for quite some time and was feeling somewhat lonely. He was pondering on what his long-time companion could be doing...  
All of a sudden, he heard the sound of the door opening. His heart started beating much faster, as there was only one person that had the keys to his flat...  
He quickly came to the door.  
Later he couldn't think of any other moment at which the sight of his friend had both surprised and terrified him that much.  
Hastings was deadly pale. Some hidden despair was visible in his eyes. There were dark half-circles below them. He had lost a considerable amount of weight and his hair had gone almost all white. He looked almost ready to pass out. The most conspicuous thing about his appearance was that he was all dressed in black.  
“Good evening, Poirot,” he said quietly, not even trying to seem normal. “I, I need to tell you something important. We had better sit down.”  
Poirot had not yet recovered from his shock, so he just nodded.  
Arthur put his suitcase on the floor. Then they made their way to the living room and sat on the sofa.  
“Tell me everything, _mon ami,_ ” the Belgian said reassuringly.  
Hastings ruffled his hair nervously, still not capable of maintaining an eye contact with his friend. He was eager to say something, but couldn’t utter a word.  
“Your wife, something has happened to her, _n'est-ce pas?_ ”  
Hastings took a few shaky breaths.  
“I— I don’t even know how to tell you, but… she’s dead.”  
Poirot had anticipated that, but he was shocked and horrified anyway. He tried to bear in mind that the beautiful charming woman whom his friend had loved so much was not among the living anymore. His heart sank.  
“How did that happen? When? You need to tell me,” he gently placed his hand on his friend's shoulder.  
Arthur inched a little closer to him. At this time he didn’t recoil from his friend’s touch. When he managed to speak up, his voice was unnaturally high and weak.  
“She came down with pneumonia. I didn’t write to you about it because I didn’t want you to worry. The doctors did their best. But a week ago… a week ago, at dawn…” his voice cracked. “She died. She passed away in my arms. This— this happened so quickly— And after the funeral our children had to quickly go back to their own business. And I came here as fast as I could because— I felt so lonely—”  
At that moment Hastings was battling his own feelings. His cheeks were reddened and he was pursing his lips. His hands clenched into fists and straightened alternately.  
“All good, _mon cher._ You need to let it out,” Poirot said gently.  
There was something in the Belgian’s voice that made Arthur stop fighting his emotions. He covered his face with his hands and started crying quietly. His whimpers grew louder and louder, eventually becoming heart-wrenching sobs. Tears practically leaked out between his fingers.  
_“Mon ami… Mon pauvre ami…”_ Poirot whispered. “May I embrace you?”  
Hastings nodded. The detective lovingly wrapped his arms around his trembling body. All the English composure, the pride and dignity was gone - there was only a poor individual for whom there was nothing left but endless despair.  
“ _Mon Dieu_ , I cannot express how sorry I feel for you.”  
Arthur buried his face in the detective's shoulder, still crying.  
“Shh… Oh, my dearest Hastings, _tout va bien_ , all is going to be alright…” Poirot whispered while holding his devastated friend even tighter, as if he were afraid Hastings might fall apart without it. “We will be alright, I am here for you. Nothing bad can happen anymore,” he started rubbing circles on his friend's back. His own eyes stung and his heart felt as if it would break. But he knew he had to stay strong for Hastings – not get upset and guide him through the darkest moments of his life.  
It's hard to tell how long they stayed like this. After what seemed like hours, the poor man's sobs started to become quieter and he began to gradually calm down.  
When the detective was sure Hastings could actually listen to him, he said softly, “I know you feel like all your world has collapsed. There is little that I or anyone else can do about it. Though as time flows by, the pain will decrease. You just have to wait. And I will accompany you. _Je vous promets,_ I will be by your side until you feel better.”  
Surprisingly, Hastings seemed to calm down and relax as Hercule held him. Once he had finally stopped crying, Poirot very gently let go of him.  
He looked really miserable - his face was red and puffy, and his cheeks were still gleaming with tears. Hercule had never seen him so shaken and vulnerable before. He handed him a handkerchief, not saying a word. Arthur just nodded in thankfulness and dried his face.  
Poirot was determined to do something that could make him feel at least a tad better.  
“I will go make you some tea, alright?”  
Arthur nodded.  
A few minutes later Poirot came back to the living room, carrying a large cup of hot tea.  
The sight of it made Hastings realise how thirsty he actually was. As he felt the hot liquid fill his stomach, his mood improved the slightest bit.  
“This— this emptiness, the void,” Hastings uttered, setting the empty cup on the table and absent-mindedly pointing towards his chest. “I feel as if— as if a part of me has been ripped off—” he winced, trying not to burst into tears again.  
“I am perfectly aware of what you are going through,” Poirot answered. “I know this will not make you feel any better, but I really know what it feels like, the loss of someone important.”  
Arthur gave him a questioning look.  
“Although I have never been in a romantic relationship, I know well the emotions that come with losing a loved one. When I was eleven, my parents told me I would soon have a little brother or sister. I was overjoyed. But the little girl was stillborn... And however I was a little boy, it had quite an impact on me. I felt much like you do now. I thought I would never be happy again. But as the days passed, I eventually learned to live with it.”  
Hastings sighed. “I’m sorry that you experienced that...”  
They sat in silence for a long while.  
“What will we do now? Would you like to go to bed already?” Poirot asked at last.  
“I think yes. To be honest, I'm exhausted.”  
While Hastings headed for the bathroom, Poirot went to the guest room to prepare it. Meanwhile, he pondered on what he could do to comfort his poor companion’s soul. He was quite lost for words.  
A challenging task was before him, and it could turn out to be more difficult than any investigation. His favourite method of problem solving – sitting in a chair and thinking – was of no use here. Hastings was mourning - he had lost his beloved wife who had meant to him much more than anything or anybody in the entire world.  
Some fifteen minutes later Hastings came to the room, dressed for the night. In some way he resembled a child willing to hear a bedtime story.  
“Could you… Could you sit with me for a few moments?”  
_“Bien sûr.”_  
Hercule watched his friend tuck himself into the fresh sheets.  
_“Attendez une minute,_ I will bring you something that will help you sleep.”  
He returned after a while, carrying a glass half-filled with warm milk and a small pill.  
“Is there anything else I could do for you, _cher ami?”_ Poirot asked after Arthur had taken the sedative ad downed the milk.  
“Just… stay with me…”  
Poirot was a little astounded, but also determined to do anything that could comfort his grieving companion.  
“Of course. Try to calm down, alright? I know it will not be easy, but you definitely need some rest.”  
He switched off the lamp and sat in the armchair beside the bed. Hastings sighed deeply and changed his position a few times, but finally the sedative started working and he stopped moving. His breathing became deep and even.  
Soon Poirot dozed off as well.  
All of a sudden, he was awoken by a muffled groan. He was fully awake almost immediately when he saw Hastings was tossing and turning in the bed, mumbling something and whimpering, his face gleaming with sweat.  
All the grief and despair must've had heavily influenced his mind. It was clear he was having a vivid nightmare.  
The detective switched the lamp on. All he wanted at that moment was to wake his friend up and put him at ease.  
_“Réveillez-vous, vous êtez en sécurité._ I am here, Hastings, I have you,” he said, gently shaking Arthur by the shoulder.  
It took a few moments for Hastings to completely regain his consciousness. He sat up on the bed, a glimpse of horror still visible in his blue eyes. He was still quivering and breathing heavily. He was also biting his lip which indicated he was bottling up some emotions.  
Poirot looked him in the eyes with compassion.  
“You have had a _cauchemar,_ a bad dream, yes?” Hastings nodded in response. “Would you like to tell me about it, perhaps?” At this time Arthur shook his head. “This is fine. Shall you go back to sleep?”  
After some hesitation Hastings stuttered, “I— I'll t-try.”  
“I will stay with you no matter what.”  
A minute or so later he heard that Hastings' breathing became uneven. That was accompanied by some sniffling that was audible although the man was obviously trying to be discreet. Poirot placed his hand on the duvet covering Hastings’ arm.  
“Poirot is here with you, Hastings, and he is not going anywhere.”  
His own heart sank at the awareness of his friend’s misery. After a few seconds he was sure that Arthur was too upset to fall asleep again. He switched the lamp back on.  
“My poor Hastings, I wish I could do something to end your suffering,” he felt his own eyes well up with tears.  
“It’s— it’s just so hard—” Arthur buried his face in the pillow.  
_“Mon plus cher ami,_ I understand that the pain seems unbearable. But I assure you, it will not stay like this forever. You will learn to live with it. You have children, we may still solve some cases together. You have something to live for. And you are the bravest and strongest man I know.”  
Arthur tried to calm down, but his efforts were fruitless.  
The detective thought for a while. He knew his friend was not keen on physical contact – though earlier he’d succeeded in comforting Hastings by offering it to him.  
“Sit up, _mon cher ami.”_  
Arthur did so and allowed his friend to embrace him again.  
“Things are going to get better. Now try to sleep. As you English say, it is always darkest before the dawn.”  
He went on holding Arthur tightly and rubbing his back, occasionally whispering soothing words. As Hastings was slowly calming down again, he felt more and more heavy leaning on Poirot. Neither of them felt like pulling away from the embrace.  
Eventually he stopped sniffling and gulping and his breath became steady again. He fell asleep in the detective's arms. Poirot put him down as gently as he could and covered him with the blankets.  
That night, their friendship reached a higher level.  
*  
Poirot woke up at dawn to see Hastings coming back to the room, apparently having been in the bathroom. The man looked way more peaceful than the previous night.  
“How are you feeling?” Hercule asked sympathetically.  
“A little better, thank you”, the taller man answered, sitting down on the bed. “Also, sorry for making such a fool of myself yesterday.”  
Poirot took his sinewy hand and looked him in the eyes.  
“But you did not make a fool of yourself for one second! You have the right to mourn, to feel devastated and to need help. And you are allowed to display your emotions, always. Remember this.”  
“Thank you for all you do for me. I love you so much,” Hastings said, and immediately realised what it meant. He blushed madly. “Oh, I mean…”  
“I love you too, Hastings.”  
The Englishman just smiled, and never before had Poirot been so glad to see it. At that moment, they both knew there would be a long time before he fully recovered from his loss, but together they would definitely make it through.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work here and my first story written in English. Thanks for reading and don't hesitate to comment :)


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